


Il pleut des cordes

by metonymy



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 01:47:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metonymy/pseuds/metonymy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she pokes her nose out from where she has burrowed under the duvet, she discovers that it's also raining. She groans. It's so satisfying that she does it again, and louder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Il pleut des cordes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "rainy day cuddles, cookies, and tea" fest over at @fourteenacross's journal, archiving here belatedly. "Il pleut des cordes" is a French idiom meaning "it's raining ropes," similar to "it's raining cats and dogs."

Ariadne wakes up cold and alone. That's not as unusual as it might be; Arthur keeps odd hours and her old and charming apartment has old and not-at-all-charming heating that only works intermittently. When she pokes her nose out from where she has burrowed under the duvet, she discovers that it's also raining. She groans. It's so satisfying that she does it again, and louder. The lack of response tells her that Arthur's not in the apartment, and she's trying to decide whether or not to sulk when she hears the front door open.

Dragging the duvet with her, she sticks her feet in the old moccasins that serve as her slippers and pads out to the living room. Arthur is leaning his black umbrella against the doorframe and balancing a box in one arm while he unbuttons his overcoat, somehow managing not to drop anything. He looks wet in spite of the umbrella and coat.

"Did you get splashed?" she asks, pulling the duvet around her like a cape. He looks up and gives her a rueful smile.

"I sacrificed myself for your breakfast," he tells her, maneuvering his coat off and hanging it up. "Take these, will you?" When she does, snaking her free hand out, he bends to take off his shoes. Of course he wouldn't just kick them off like a normal person. She feels suddenly very fond of him and leans over to kiss the top of his head. There's nothing more than water plastering his hair down, the smoky smell of Paris rain instead of vetiver and pine.

"Go get changed," she says. She deposits the box on the coffee table and the duvet on the couch and goes to make tea while he heads to the bedroom. By the time she comes back with the mugs (one with the Eiffel Tower on it and plenty of milk, one oversized and green with lots of sugar) Arthur is back, wearing an ancient tee-shirt that's worn thin as tissue and a pair of pyjama pants under his old flannel plaid bathrobe. The box is open revealing a happy jumble of canelés and she grins, handing Arthur his mug. Clearly he's not going anywhere.

"I take it you're not going back out today?" she asks, settling down next to him and pulling the duvet over her legs. He tugs on it til it's over his lap, then tucks her against his side and lets his arm rest around her, warm and safe.

"I can't go anywhere, I'm trapped under a blanket."


End file.
